


Unstrung

by WhumpOnABlog



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Bleeding Out, Episode: s01e11 Alone Time, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, IV - Freeform, Malcolm Bright Whump, Medical Trauma, Prodigal Son Whump, Unconsciousness, Whump, collapse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:41:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23547820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhumpOnABlog/pseuds/WhumpOnABlog
Summary: Takes place in the moments immediately following the attack at the Whitly residence in Episode 11 "Alone Time". Fills in some of the hurt/comfort blanks.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 106





	1. Malcolm

**Author's Note:**

> The perspective shifts between characters and the timeline sometimes jumps back to pick up from the new perspective.  
> More chapters to come!

Wreathed in the arms of his mother and sister, Malcolm took one breath and then another. He felt his body begin to relax, the tidal wave of adrenaline that had carried him through the last 15 minutes receding with a crash. The animal fury that had sharpened his focus and dulled his pain, allowing him to escape and imprison his captor was gone too. No longer numb to the pain, he felt everything. Every blow to the head, every dragging scrape, the sickening gape of the stab wound, but even worse somehow was his hand. Every beat of his heart sent a throb that felt like an anvil smash. The press of his mother and sister against it was agony.

His thoughtsbegan to drift as the last ripple of adrenaline ebbed away. He felt drained, empty. _What was that phrase from The Iliad? Or was it The Odyssey? No, it was The Iliad. All those battles outside of Troy, young men dying, run through with spears and swords, playthings of the gods, falling like a puppets without strings._ His breath was ragged. He could feel his knees buckling. As darkness blurred his vision, he remembered it, that phrase: _“And blindness seized his heart, and his shining limbs were unstrung.”_


	2. Jessica

They were alive. They made it through. Her children were alive. _They were alive_. Jessica unconsciously tightened her arms around Malcolm and Ainsley. When was the last time she had held them like this? So many years ago, when they could both fit on her lap, before . .

No, there was time to think about Martin later, about the first serial killer who had been under her roof, and there would be time to think about the second serial killer who was still under their roof. Time also to think about what happened to her poor, fractured boy - _so much blood, was it all his blood?_

Reality was a wolf circling her door, and she wanted only to stay locked in this embrace for a few moments longer. She stood there, willing the moment to stay unbroken, but then she felt Malcolm sagging against her, a dead weight in her and Ainsley’s arms.

“Malcolm!” They both cried together.

Awkwardly, they laid him on the floor. His head lolled to the side, and Jessica felt a cold pit forming in her stomach.

“Malcolm?” Her voice sounded brittle, not her voice at all.

“Mom.” She looked to Ainsley, then followed her gaze to the front of Malcolm’s shirt and gasped. There, blooming through the dried blood, were bright, fresh stains. With trembling fingers she lifted the stiff hem of his shirt, and as she did a clotted shred of what must have been Malcolm’s shirt fell away. Worse still, oh much worse, she saw blood slipping from an ugly wound just under his ribs.

Jessica felt bile rising in her throat. She was completely inadequate to this. Utterly helpless, utterly useless. Her heartbeat was roaring in her ears. She was going to faint.

No, she was a Milton, dammit. She was not going to faint. She leapt to her feet and hurried to the bathroom, grabbing a stack of pristine, white hand towels. She rushed back to her children, dumping the towels on the floor. She placed one over the wound and put as much pressure on it as she dared. Malcolm grimaced but didn’t open his eyes. To her dismay, Jessica saw blood already beginning to seep through the thick towel. She felt her panic rising, the wolf at the door, circling. She had to get help. Now.

“Ainsley, darling, hold some pressure here. Can you do that? I have to get us help.”

“Yes,” Ainsley said, shifting onto her knees to hold the towel in place, “I’ve got this. My phone is on the dining room table if you need it.”

Jessica hurried from the room, glancing behind her at the wrenching sight of her children bleeding on the floor. She had to get help. She had to get help. _Help. Help. Help_.

Her legs were shaking as she navigated the hallways toward the dining room. Malcolm said Watkins would never hurt them again, but he hadn’t explained what he’d actually done to that man. Was he laying somewhere unconscious, ready to wake and wreak havoc on her house again? Why hadn’t she brought the scissors with her? 

She was ready to run out the front door screaming, begging the world to come and take all this from her hands, fix this horror in her home, but instead she made her way cautiously to the dining room and picked up Ainsley’s phone.

She had it in her hands, dialing 911, when she saw the trunk sitting in the middle of the morning room. What on earth was her great grandmother’s hope chest doing there? It belonged on the other side of the room, full of heirloom quilts. Certainly not where it was now with a crowbar through the hasp.

Then she heard it - a soft, whining moan. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Was is coming from the chest?

“911, what is the location of your emergency?”

Jessica’s attention snapped back to the phone in her hand. She quickly rattled off her address, the familiarity of the action giving her something normal to cling to.

“And what is the nature of your emergency?”

“A man just tried to kill my family,” Jessica said, fighting to keep her voice steady. “My son, is bleeding badly, I-I think he’s been stabbed. My daughter is hurt too. We need an ambulance immediately.”

“Ma’am, is the intruder still in the house with you?”

She glanced back at the chest. “I . . I think so.”

“Ok, ma’am, get yourself to a secure location and barricade the door if possible. I see here that police units are already in route to your location. I have just dispatched an ambulance, and they will be on location shortly.”

How were the police already in route? Did a neighbor call?

“Stay on the line with me, ma’am. Help will be there soon.”

“Of course,” Jessica replied mechanically.


	3. Ainsley

As her mother’s footsteps faded away down the hall, Ainsley felt another tear slip down her cheek. This bump on the head was turning her into a basket case. _Get a grip, Ainsley_. 

But how could she? Here she was trying to keep a man she loves from bleeding out on the floor. Again.

Would the bleeding ever stop? What she wouldn’t give to have The Surgeon here, just for a moment, to work another miracle. Why wouldn’t it stop?

She pulled away the saturated towel and pressed a fresh one onto the still bleeding wound. Even this small movement sent a nauseating throb of pain through her skull. Her vision swam with black dots. She closed her eyes, trying to blur them away.

“Ains?”

She started and then breathed a sigh of relief - Malcolm’s eyes were open.

“Hey, big bro,” she smiled, quickly palming away her tears.

His eyes flickered from pain to confusion and back to pain, “Ains, you look terrible.”

She choked out a laugh. “You’re not quite ready for the portrait gallery yourself.”

“You should see the other guy,” he rasped.

She met his eyes. “Is he still . . .?”

“Yes, but he won’t . . .” he paused to take a shuddering breath,“he can’t get out.”

“What did he do to you, Malcolm?” she whispered, gesturing to all the blood.

His eyes slid away from hers, fixing somewhere on the ceiling. “He stabbed me.”

Ainsley felt a breathtaking flash of anger.

“But I broke my hand, not him.”

Her anger evaporated into disbelief.

“You did what now?”

“I couldn’t get out of these if I didn’t.” He lifted his right hand with the long shackle still around it. “I couldn’t let him . . . hurt you.”

Ainsley took his uninjured hand in hers. It felt so cold.

“You saved us, Malcolm. You saved us.”

His eyes were unfocused now, closing.

“No, no, stay with me, Malcolm!” she cried, squeezing his hand.

His eyes flicked back open.

“You won’t believe what a badass Mom was.”

Malcolm’s eyebrows quirked into a question.

“Total badass. She smashed a vase in that psycho’s face, and she was ready to attack him with a pair of scissors if he made it through the door.”

His eyes widened.

“I know, right?” She was babbling, anything to keep his attention, keep him here with her. “Totally amazing, but why does she have a giant pair of scissors in her dressing room anyway?”

“Scrapbooking,” he whispered.

“Of course,” she laughed, “for all those gala events The Surgeon’s ex-wife gets invited to.”

She paused the stream of words for a moment, her mind getting fuzzy, her thoughts following rabbit trails.

She looked back to Malcolm. His eyes were sliding shut.

“Malcolm, stay with me,” she cried, shaking his shoulder, “stay with me, please.” Her voice cracked with a sob. “I’m not going through another Christmas dinner alone with Mom.”

There was the ghost of a smile, but his eyes didn’t open.

“Don’t you leave me, Malcolm!”


	4. Gil

“Gil!”

It was almost a scream. Jessica’s face across the foyer, a picture of anguish. He made his way through the frantic, crowded room, taking in the smears of blood on her clothes and hands as he approached.

“Gil!” _I need you_. Had she actually spoken that last part? He could never be sure afterwards if she had said it aloud.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, taking her hands gently in his. She looked down in confusion.

“No, it’s Malcolm’s blood. It’s Malcolm’s blood!” Her voice was shaking, her panic an almost physical presence in the room. “Where is the ambulance, Gil? We need an ambulance now!”

“What’s the ETA on a bus?” Gil shouted to no one in particular.

“Two minutes, sir.”

“Jessica,” Gil said, turning back to her, “where’s Malcolm?”

“This way.”

She gripped his wrist and pulled him down the hallway. “Gil, it’s bad,” she said, her voice brimming with tears. “It’s so bad.”

He had known it would be from the moment he had left Martin Whitly’s cell, those last words ringing in his ears: _He’s going to kill them all._

He had dispatched units immediately, desperately hoping they would make it in time, dread weighing on him as he’d sped through the streets toward the Whitly home. He had arrived on scene bare moments after the uniformed officers - too late, he saw now. Too late.

He followed Jessica into the bedroom and was shocked to see Ainsley. It hadn’t occurred to him that she would be there. She let out a gasping sob as they entered the room, “He won’t wake up!”

Malcolm’s face was a colorless, ghostly pale. Gil knelt down next to him, avoiding the two crimson towels that lay discarded by his side. He felt for a pulse as Jessica sank down beside Ainsley. With a sinking heart he repositioned his fingers, trying again to find the pulse.

Jessica reached for Malcolm’s hand. They were all holding their breath. No one in the world was breathing while Gil searched for a pulse.

. . .

. . .

. . .

_There it was!_ So faint, but there it was. His eyes met Jessica’s, and the spell was broken. The world breathed again, and the paramedics came into the room, filling it with their voices and equipment.

Gil and Jessica helped Ainsley up to the edge of the bed, giving the paramedics room to work. They quickly cut away Malcolm's ruined shirt, hooked him up to a heart monitor, and placed an oxygen mask on his face.

“Can anybody help with this?” One paramedic asked, holding up Malcolm’s shackled wrist. Gil jumped forward, fumbling for his handcuff key. He unlocked the cuff and stepped back, rubbing his own wrist while the paramedic searched for a vein to start an IV.

Gil stood by Jessica and watched, feeling a sickening twinge as the paramedics catalogued each injury.

“Head trauma, left side of forehead. Pupils equally responsive to light,” said one, shining a penlight in Malcolm’s eyes.

“Stab wound to left upper quadrant, sounds like it missed the lung,” said the other, listening briefly with a stethoscope.

“Crush injury to left hand”

Jessica leaned on Gil slightly. He could see her chin trembling.

“He’s still fighting, Jess. He hasn’t given up.”

She nodded, but he wasn’t sure if she had really heard him.

“Pulse is thready, respirations shallow.”

“BP is tanking. Let’s start shock protocol and get him to a trauma bay.”

As they began preparing to move Malcolm to the stretcher, another team of paramedics arrived.

“We can have a look at you now, miss,” said one, approaching Ainsley.

Ainsley’s hand unconsciously went to the stiff rivulets of blood on her face. “Oh, no, I’m fine.”

Gil could have laughed out loud. She sounded just like Malcolm.

At Jessica’s insistence, Ainsley allowed the paramedic to complete a quick assessment.

“You should really be seen at the ER and have a CAT scan done, ma’am. Head injuries are nothing to take lightly.”

“Really, I’m fine,” she insisted, and tried to stand, but fell back almost immediately, hand to her head.

“We’ll go ahead and bring the other stretcher,” the medic said gently.

“Mom,” said Ainsley, her eyes filling, “stay with me?”

“Of course, darling, but . . . “ her eyes strayed to the other side of the room where Malcolm was being wheeled out. “Gil?” _I need you_.

“I’ll go with him, Jess. I should be there in case there is something he can tell me.”

“Thank you, I . . I hardly know what to do.”

“Just take care of Ainsley. I’ll stay with Malcolm until you get there.”

Gil followed the paramedics down the hallway, past what seemed like dozens of officers processing the scene. As they maneuvered the stretcher down the front steps, Gil said a silent prayer of thanks that the press had been blockaded further up the street. They must be foaming at the mouth not to get any closer to another red letter night at the Whitly residence.

The stretcher was loaded quickly, and Gil jumped in after it, taking a seat at the end of the bench. He tried to stay out of the way in the cramped space as the paramedic rechecked Malcolm’s vital signs and settled the IV and oxygen lines.

The ambulance pulled away, the sirens setting Gil’s nerves on a knife’s edge. The paramedic took a seat in the chair at the head of the stretcher and radioed his report in to the nearest ER.

Gil looked from Malcolm’s bloodless face to the heart monitor and back again, the pulsing waveforms giving proof that Malcolm’s heart still beat, that he still breathed despite all appearances to the contrary.

The paramedic finished his call and reassessed Malcolm’s vital signs once more.

“How’s he doing?” Gil asked.

“He’s not out of the woods by a long shot,” he replied grimly. “He’s lost a lot of blood, but hopefully the IV is bringing his blood pressure up enough to keep him from crashing until they can get him to the OR.”

“If he wakes up, can I talk to him?”

“You can try. Just keep it brief. He needs that oxygen mask right now.”

Gil feared he wouldn’t get the chance, but a particularly bad pothole jarred the whole ambulance, eliciting a curse from the paramedic as he fought to keep the heart monitor from hitting the floor. Instinctively, Gil looked to Malcolm’s face, and saw his eyes opening, his gaze sliding around drunkenly.

He leaned forward, “Hey, kid, how you doing?”

With effort, Malcolm focused his eyes on Gil. The paramedic helped lift the oxygen mask slightly from his face.

“Gil . . .” his voice was barely a whisper.Gil leaned in closer to catch the words, “He tried to . . . he tried to kill me.”

Gil felt like someone had a vice grip on his heart. “I know, kid. I know, but you got him. He’s never getting out.”

“No . . .” Malcolm’s brow knitted in frustration, “. . Watkins told me . . .” his voice trailed off as he took several gasping breaths. Gil looked at the paramedic who shook his head.  


“Don’t worry about that now,” Gil said, watching as Malcolm struggled to keep his eyes open. “Just . . just keep breathing. One breath at a time, ok kid?”

Gil thought he saw Malcolm nod as his eyes closed, but he couldn’t be sure. He wanted to let him know he was still there, but the hand nearest Gil was swathed in bandages to an almost comical size, so instead he carefully put his hand on Malcolm’s shoulder. It was such a familiar gesture, one he had repeated so many times since their first meeting decades before.

“Just stick around a little longer, Malcolm,” he whispered.


End file.
